


Strange Heart Beating

by enygmatic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cane Pegging, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Negotiations, Orgasm Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1404019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enygmatic/pseuds/enygmatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chilton has denied Hannibal access to Will's therapeutic process, and moreover he is not receptive to Hannibal's veiled threats. Ever inventive, Hannibal attempts a new approach -- after all, as Abel Gideon has informed him, Chilton both resents and reveres Doctor Lecter. </p><p>And both are sentiments that Hannibal Lecter can appeal to through particular types of manipulation. </p><p>Spoilers for s2e5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mortal

**Author's Note:**

> How can those terrified vague fingers push  
> The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?  
> And how can body, laid in that white rush,  
> But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
> 
> \- William Butler Yeats

“This isn’t something exposed for negotiation,” insisted Doctor Frederick Chilton, as he swirled his crystal tumbler in hand. The dark cognac had been offered to him only moments before, and he remembered to savor the scent too late -- a solid sign of a distracted man, and he hoped Hannibal hadn't taken note. His company smiled in response, the slip of his lips thin when stretched so unkindly. Hannibal's eyes (unmoved by his expression) sipped in every detail that Chilton would regret. His demeanor had chilled; since Chilton had defied his wishes (his polite requests, even) to reconsider his psychiatric embargo on Will Graham. Chilton had presented his case in this very office, tempted by a very similar beverage in a twin to the tumbler he now held: he had argued that Hannibal's manipulative influence and implied interference with Will Graham was a detriment to Will's therapeutic rehabilitation. No more interviews with the patient, doctor's orders. Wouldn't want to have to inform the outer rings of psychiatric circles about this little mishap, would they? Their mutual misdeeds. 

It was galling, to have to suffer even the _suggestion_ that Frederick Chilton could blackmail Hannibal. Or worse -- that the other man could _judge_ Hannibal, lording over his work like some pontificating Pontius Pilate. The disdain that simmered in his veins never once played a fraction upon his face. He had, in that mirrored moment before, so politely reminded Chilton that he had enough dirt on the Chief of Staff for a grave, though the words weren't so viscerally delivered in such cheap metaphor. The man wasn't Freddie Lounds. Chilton only responded with an enigmatic drift away -- Hannibal knew the other psychiatrist understood the gravity of his counter threat. Chilton had, after all, invested so much effort in his own exoneration of his manipulation concerning Abel Gideon. Hannibal suspected (or _knew_ , rather, as Chilton's psyche was hardly the fortress one might wish it were) that Frederick was simply calculating the risks. Chilton was an ambitious man, and he was hungering for fame. Starving, even. If not Abel Gideon, he would devour Will Graham. If not Will Graham, well. 

Hannibal was aware that Frederick Chilton was in the process of profiling his presumed psychosis (what else would Chilton depict this unethical tendency as? Hypocrisy aside). The dedication denoted was almost as impressive as the _passion_ ; Chilton would thrust himself into his work. When he had figured out _how_ Hannibal was manipulating him (at least, the superficial manipulation, rather than the gossamer strings locking Chilton's wrists), and when he had confronted Hannibal upon those marbled steps, he offered truce instead of scorn, instead of anger. Because Frederick Chilton wanted Hannibal, so deeply, so dearly, as his fraternal friend. His disarming brother in arms. But Chilton now thirsted for influence over their professional relationship, and that was in no way palatable to Hannibal. Influence meant control, and control would eventually mean therapy cages in the basement of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. 

Threats hadn't worked. Hannibal nodded, feigning attention to Chilton's protests on why he wouldn't negotiate Will's therapy, and he raised his own glass to his lips. Slipping in his tongue, tasting his own _edited_ brand of cognac. 

Chilton had thought it was _oak barrel_ , that flavored the drink in such a way. 

"-- And while I appreciate the severe irony, given the context of our more _intimate_ knowledge of each other, I'm afraid I can't bend on this, Hannibal, for the reasons I've so thoroughly dissected. Ergo, Will Graham is off-limits."

"But of course, Frederick. Far be it for me to dislodge your sense of integrity. I understand completely," intoned Hannibal. He watched Chilton smile, watched how appreciative lips hid a dagger of a tongue. He knew why Chilton waxed caution more carefully this meeting, and that knowing was the elephant in the room. The incident with Matthew Brown was yet another smear against Chilton's struggling name -- he was now more in the habit of incredulous infamy than academic fame. First his failure to catch the _Chesapeake Ripper_ two years ago, then the _rumors_ about what really happened to Abel Gideon (though Chilton continued to claim he was simply incorrect in his diagnosis, Hannibal knew better), the dissection that followed (Gideon had called it a gift basket) and now _this_? A psychotic, homicidal orderly was humiliating enough, but the fact that Brown was Chilton's unofficial righthand man? His most esteemed employee? And that degradation, the horror that Brown had inflicted on Hannibal himself? 

Chilton had every reason to cling onto some transient hope of integrity. Especially in Hannibal's presence. Especially as this moment breathed. 

And that was all the more reason to invoke different tactics. Hannibal nodded, uttering reassurance, as he set down his glass. A slivered pool of darkened cognac remained. He reached over to Chilton, taking the psychiatrist by the shoulder. 

"How could I not? After all -- what was it that you said before? Psychiatrists like us, if you recall. We have to stick together," continued Hannibal. His smile spread sharply across his face. Chilton glanced down at the hand, his body instinctively tensing beneath the other man's hand. Chilton's pulse quickened, his heart echoing faster beats, and he looked at Hannibal with an uneasy quirk of his eyebrow. Physical touch had a control that enticed Hannibal, especially when he sought explicit submission. It was a habit of his to employ touch when persuasion of his subject's mind simply _wasn't enough_ , when he had to feel how flesh and blood squirmed under his god-given willpower. It was formerly an intimate ploy -- before he had weaponized it. Hannibal _owed_ Will Graham, for having sent Brown after him. And Hannibal, in return, learned to weaponize intimacy. He engaged Alana Bloom, offering her a physical outlet, for the sake of spiting Will. He intended to do the same with Jack Crawford, Will's only other heartfelt ally. Hannibal would claim the pair of them, he would siphon them from Will Graham's life. This was only fair, only just, a pound of flesh on interest. Will must learn. 

But Chilton? Eager, starving Frederick Chilton? The man was a cunning jackal, feverish in his observation and manipulation. Will had nothing to gain from Doctor Chilton, and there was no reason to weaponize intimacy for the sole purpose of revenging upon Will. But that didn't mean that Hannibal lacked _any_ reason whatsoever to whisper a new strategy. If Chilton wouldn't obey survivalistic threats... 

"Are you all right, Hannibal?" Chilton looked again at the hand grasping his shoulder. "You seem somewhat, ah, distracted. Understandably, of course, given recent events -- ah." He flickered his eyes upwards, rolling them in brief, the very pantomime of scolding himself. "Right. Perhaps I should take my leave, as it were? Actually I've been called back to testify at the trial, and I might as well take and early night for--" 

Hannibal pressed himself against Chilton, grabbing the man's navy and gold paisley tie, yanking it back as his pelvis angled forward. Chilton gasped, winded -- breathless -- unable to muster much of anything save for the passive, mirrored inverse of Hannibal's movements. He pushed, and Chilton pulled. Hannibal's hand on Chilton's shoulder sunk in sharp fingers, and he steered the Chief of Staff against the office's mahogany door. Chilton's spine collided with wood, and the esoteric decor along the adjacent wall shuddered. Hannibal took a deep breath, appreciating the soundless squirming that Doctor Chilton's lips made, enjoying the sight of exhilarated and widened eyes above a silent, arcing tongue -- and soon his mouth, his teeth clashed against Chilton's, matching that hunger with his own. He felt Chilton's body tense and spasm, before melting against his unrelenting bone. He felt Chilton stall, as he deepened the kiss, he felt Chilton's bewilderment and paralysis. 

And then he felt Chilton kiss back. That sharp, talented tongue burning against his wet interior cheek. He felt Chilton tremble against his torso, he felt Chilton's weakened body succumb, rubbing against his own. The clattered of an abandoned walking cane made the only melody between them, their chorus of muted moans and grunts cutting too sporadically to be considered anything musical. Hannibal's hands clawed down Chilton's torso, his nails dragging along the hips. Chilton had no choice but to cling to the other man; he had abandoned his cane, thinking Hannibal would support him. When those foundational hands fell away to explore his belt, Chilton _had_ to hold onto Hannibal's shoulders, lest his weakened gait folded him to the floor. Surgically precise hands teased at the belt, fingertips slipping between Chilton's legs only to taunt. Frustrated, Chilton hissed out, his own hands taking initiative and liberating himself from his leather belt. Demanding a reward, Chilton surged at Hannibal's mouth, seizing it in another kiss. Soon saliva-streaked lips parted, exhaling hot breath, and Chilton looked at Hannibal with a metallic gaze melting, bright and misting like steel beams thrust into solar flares. Hannibal sneered, his own eyes narrowing, as he leaned over to bite at Chilton's chin and throat, licking at the roaring red mark his teeth forged as his deft fingers effortlessly unpuzzling Chilton's tweed jacket. Hannibal leaned over, his teeth and tongue trailing down Chilton's neck to bite at a less-clothed shoulder, and moving back upwards, searing a V along Chilton's skin. Thin lips nuzzled Chilton's earlobe, pulling back to snarl with sizzled syllables:

"You knew what Matthew Brown was, Frederick. How else could you trust some orderly, this merely mortal underling, to wiretap your hospital for you?" 

The whisper caressed Chilton's ear, sinister in its coolness, as if he had been stroked with the broadside of a knife. 

"What -- what _wiretapping_ \--"

Hannibal seized the halfway erected cock between Chilton's legs, gripping it hard as the other doctor ushered out a long whimper. He didn't blink all the while, his analytical eyes gnawing at the twitches and winces electrifying Chilton's face and darting eyes. The message was transparent: _don't lie to me_. Not that Chilton could as well as he used to, not since Abel Gideon inverted his organic content. Chilton, post trauma, had since adopted the curious quirk of breaking eye contact when he outright lied -- he had done so in this office, earlier, lying to Hannibal while seeking security through a window's view. 

It was one of the many things that required Frederick Chilton to kneel for. 

"Tsk. You wear _unethical_ like a crown," said Hannibal, his nose wrinkling. With a furrowed brow, he pushed his palm upwards, rising the rub against Chilton's cock. "Which isn't necessarily unappealing, Frederick, but it can be garish." 

"Yes," choked out Chilton, his mouth twisting. He couldn't tear away from Hannibal's penetrating stare, his skeletal framework poised with a strange paralysis. The tension proved mesmerizing. 

"Let us indulge in a little open negotiation." Hannibal eased off the pressure against Chilton's groin before smoothing his fingers along the other man's thighs. With intrinsic care, he unbuttoned and unzipped the slacks still adorning Chilton, and slowly pushed them down his legs. "Turn around, Frederick, so that we may truly begin."

Chilton swallowed, closing his eyes as he nodded. He had no inclination to defy Hannibal, not in this circumstance, not when he was ravenous in his curiosity -- what motivated his cohort to this? What provoked this particular gasp of stimulation? What sort of chess piece was to be played, if the board was set in flesh and blood flow? Chilton pressed his right cheek against the door, eyes glancing downward to check the lock. Hannibal pressed a knee into the base of Chilton's naked spine.

Though nearly distracted, Chilton caught the faint jingle of something dainty and metal. 

Handcuffs.


	2. Olympian

_Click._

"It's only a precaution, Frederick," came the lilted voice behind him, reassuring in the light whimsy of his delivery. Hannibal had always proved such a marvel to Chilton, especially in the way he could make even the most dubious circumstance sound glowing with invitation. Chilton bit down an immediate response, his usual sharpness now distracted, and all he could concern himself with was how thankful he was that the vermillion heat crawling upwards from his neck was mostly obscured. The angle at which he was shoved against the door was humiliating, but it served some functional benefit. 

Chilton opened his mouth, his tongue poking out, its wayward muscle tasting the door. He craved to offer a retort. 

"Precaution? Is that what we're calling this kind of foreplay?" Chilton closed his eyes, his chest measuring rapid intakes of air. He knew his focus was shattered. The walls he had built with careful sarcasm and theatrical distraction crumbled before Hannibal's arousing touch. He felt Hannibal's hands grope his ass, those surgical fingers so elegant in their length stroking and pulling at the flesh hidden beneath dark slacks -- he felt blood flush between his loins, retorting in a manner quicker than his mouth had. His own hands were locked together, the cold metal clinched against his wrists, disabling Chilton's own wandering fingers. As warmth spiraled from his groin and flooded through the veins of his thighs, he found himself coherent enough only to usher out whimpers. While Hannibal learned Chilton's sensitivity, the Chief of Staff focused his mind to focus on the illustrated actions taking place; here he had Hannibal, in the flesh, provoking sexual _bribery_ \-- and Chilton knew he had not misunderstood the terms at hand. Hannibal wanted access to Baltimore State Hospital's premiere patients, and in his psychotic impulse, he rationalized that this tender argument would persuade Frederick Chilton. To engage this without considering the consequences adhered to _some_ kind of psychopathy, surely. 

The connection titillated Chilton. His arousal surged, painfully, and his cock challenged the strength of that wooden door. 

"Pleasure to -- _observe_ how your unorthodoxy -- ah," Chilton moaned, and his shoulders tensed as electrical pleasure tingled up his spine. Hannibal had liberated Chilton's cock from his pants and belt. " _Flourishes_ beyond psychiatry." 

"Would it call it as much? Our perspective then differ, I see the human body as an experience. And that is what you are doing now: experiencing." 

Hannibal smoothed his taut palm against one of Chilton's now exposed cheeks, feeling the muscle. He slapped it, sharply, three times, as if testing for the other man's reaction. Chilton bit down on his lower lip, stunting the temptation of oncoming whimpers. His fingers tightened into cuffed fists, their show of defiance limited to only a one-night performance. There was nothing he could do, to disengage Hannibal, not physically anyway. 

All that remained was his feisty tongue. 

"Oh, you'll have to try much harder than that," taunted Chilton. It felt good, to engage Hannibal with something more substantial than tactful whimpering. His half-smiled perked over the side of his face that Hannibal could glimpse. Undaunted, Hannibal's serene expression altered only by a single millimeter as his left eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly. That was the extent of his skepticism. His free hand hurried with the restraint of his own belt, undoing that lock. Perhaps, he thought, Frederick deserved a challenge in turn. Hannibal slipped that free hand around Chilton's hip, his nails alternating between stroking and dragging vulnerable skin. The hand that clenched at Chilton's ass dug fingernails into flesh with more abandon, and his hand parted the cheek sideways -- allowing, with one highly accurate thrust, to penetrate deeply into Doctor Frederick Chilton. That hardened shaft drove inwards relentlessly, rubbing against tightened, wet tissue and creating burning sparks of friction. Chilton screamed out, in response -- he howled Hannibal's name, his voice raw with surprise and indignation and the throated white noise of _desire_. Upon instinct, he bucked back, instigating more warm pain and pincushioned pleasure. 

Hannibal leaned over Chilton, his teeth biting the curve of Chilton's ear cartilage. His traveling hand gripped Chilton's erection, and his manicured thumb cut light circles against the pinkened tip. 

"Do not release until I grant you permission," said Hannibal. His low murmur, contrary to its gentle delivery, felt like a blade behind Chilton's ear. Chilton's ass clenched, and his lower back spasmed in echo to the request. He found the very concept humiliating, intolerable. Perspiration collected just beneath his hairline.

"You aren't serious--"

"I am."

The deadened delivery haunted Chilton's body -- his thighs quivered, the anticipation bleak and mounting. 

"Please--" 

Another, brutal thrust into Chilton's backside. Hannibal's artful fingers played up and down Chilton's shaft, pausing only to toy with the testicles. Each vein reminded Hannibal of a harpsichord string. In that frame of reference, there was something somewhat beautiful about this exchange. 

"This is a negotiation, Frederick," Hannibal reminded his fellow doctor, his quiet murmur adopting a wry smile. "We both desire something that the other can deliver." He pulled back his narrow hips, only to run quite deeply his dick between Chilton's ass once more. The other man's groans sharpened Hannibal's smile. "Now what is it that you're willing to do for me?"

Chilton gritted his teeth, refusing an answer. He had already been manipulated by Hannibal once, already drawn into confession because of a perceived comradeship; Chilton wasn't eager to play this game again. Unperturbed by the obstinate display (silence could be counted as a virtue, after all, even if Chilton was no lamb) Hannibal slid his palm up from Chilton's raw cheek, and drew shapes over the Chief of Staff's shirted back. He plotted out wounds on the other man's torso, pausing to focus on Chilton's remaining kidney. When that elicited no response, Hannibal drew his fingertips up along Chilton's neck, and through his perfectly pompadoured hair. His fingers clawed to grip that hair, pulling Chilton's head backwards, exposing his throat to the unforgiving wood of the door. 

"I'll have you--" Hannibal pushed inwards to the hilt of his own testicles, his breath pushed out between smiling teeth. "-- On the floor. Begging me." He rubbed his hips slowly against the flushed curve of Chilton's ass. "Begging me to stop, and to continue. I'll have you pleading for contrary outcomes, and this will be your first lesson in _control_."

Control.

"I can't."

The timing seemed almost staged.

That was the litmus to Chilton's cock, the force of that word in context of their sexual appetites. He couldn't -- he wouldn't deny himself; the boiling urgency seared through his cock, a thunderous groan of pressure and sweet agony and a ghastly rush, rush, rush dominating the sparking synapses in his brain. Every breath was a firecracker shuddering with flames -- he released, against Hannibal's wishes. He released his load against the door, his DNA-bearing fluid smearing the wood. From across the room, that specter of an iron-cast black stag watched -- his judgment, if any was to be had, proved silent. 

Chilton's shoulders caved inwards. Dopamine drowned his brain of immediate anxiety or regret; he was satisfied, and that perplexing, tormenting tension eased out from his body, flushing his brain with a new flood of blood. 

Hannibal, wordlessly, stepped back from Frederick Chilton. He did nothing to help the handcuffed man clean the mess, nor did he bother to put himself back into his own pants and zipper. The silence between them calcified. 

At last, Chilton took a step from the wall, careful not to trip over his own pooled trousers. His pelvis was streaked with white come, and the smearing just barely touched at the base of that long, sinister scar that his body wore. The excellent handiwork of Doctor Abel Gideon: a precise, perfect line from just below the navel to just under the pectoral muscles. If Chilton was indeed made self-conscious by the gravestone of his ghosting trauma, he made no physical show of it; instead, his eyes on were Hannibal's persuasive dick. He licked his lips, cautious in his speech. 

"You didn't -- you haven't yet --" Chilton spoke through jagged breaths and stared at Hannibal's erection. It had risen at a sharp angle, unapologetic and perverse, revered and sinister -- a crucifix ready for its victim. 

"I had have yet not," he confirmed. Hannibal was a man who prided himself on his control of carnal needs -- one of the many reasons behind his carnivorous superiority. He wasn't bound to beastly exertions, like other men were. 

Hannibal glanced down at Chilton's fallen cane, and he tilted his head in consideration. 

"Kneel down onto the floor, Frederick."

"Why, what would you possibly--"

"You've proven that you cannot be believed," Hannibal said, cutting off Chilton's questions. "And if you want to keep my good faith, you must atone. Now, kneel down. Onto the floor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, this suddenly accumulated another chapter.


	3. Demigod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, the cane pegging!

"On -- on the floor? On my knees, on this floor?" 

Chilton nearly swallowed the words as they slicked along his tongue, as they crashed into the backs of his white teeth. The look he shed towards Hannibal was one shaded by humiliation; the very concept of being broken down in pieces forced the Chief of Staff to balk, to stumble over the request. Hannibal invoked no emotional response to the query, not immediately: he held that neutral, impassive expression until his spoke. Just a single corner of his mouth quirked upwards in amusement. 

"Do you require clarification, Frederick?" Hannibal blinked once -- only once. "I want to see both of your _articulatio genu_ magnetized to the floor. And now I want the anterior of your hands kissing the same foundation. Show me your spine dipping. Do this, for me, because you were much too eager in your haste." 

Chilton hesitated, and then he took a careful sideways step. He posed to a squat, before looking back at Hannibal, his eyes curved to a wince. The reluctance was something he wore in those eyes, while his lips parted helplessly against Hannibal's stare. He bent over, palms on the floor, knees pushing into the woodwork. Chilton trembled through his thighs, his body communicating what a wounded pride would never verbalize: he was chastised, humbled. Hannibal walked over, murmuring encouragement -- or what Chilton _assumed_ to be encouragement, given the soft and honeyed tone. He fixed his eyes to the floor as Hannibal knelt behind him, and the subdued finger stroking up and down his spine surprised him. That degree of genteel touch wasn't expected from someone who had just instigated threat of punishment. Chilton felt that could could afford a moment of doubt, of fleecy reprieve, as Hannibal continued to stroke up and down his back. 

This was all part of a necessary compromise, reasoned Chilton. Hannibal's alliance was crucial, at least superficially. At least until he could make good on his deal with Will Graham, and for that to figure in his favor, he _needed_ to persuade Hannibal away from Will. This, this position, this submission, was but a momentary sacrifice.

His unbuttoned dress slacks were slipped down once more, whatever recovered modesty obliterated. Hannibal's hands brushed his exposed skin, his fingers firm and cool. 

"Are you that committed?" Hannibal's question sounded wry, his glee muted by an erudite cadence. The question spooked Chilton, who couldn't place its inspiration. "Answer me, Frederick, are you that committed?" 

"To what?" Whispered Chilton, and he clenched his ass as Hannibal cupped both cheeks with a single hand, his middle finger teasing between them. 

"To the thing you are hiding from me," Hannibal answered, shoving deep that middle finger. "Of course." 

The scream out of Chilton's wet mouth ricocheted across the room, bouncing from floor to door to mingling in the towering drapes that hid sunless windows. He chased it with a whimper, unable to compose himself with that soreness inflicted so suddenly scalding his exposed sphincter. The former surgeon's finger was yanked out just as rapidly as it was thrust into him, and Chilton was left gasping from the whirlwind force. He didn't dare glance back over his shoulder this time, he didn't dare tempt that storming tempest smiling at the rear. 

"One more chance to answer, Frederick. Answer honestly." 

"I don't know what you mean," lied Chilton. 

Silence followed. Then: a soft _tsk_ , a rapping of strong knuckles against wooden floor. 

"It is perhaps unwise," began Hannibal. "To use tactics advised to you upon your adviser. Denial, Frederick? Is that what you have to offer me?" 

Hannibal had leaned back, grabbing for the fallen black and silver cane, the geometry of his motion calculated before Chilton had even knelt onto the ground. He flicked his wrist with it, arcing the cane with a faint swoosh, and propped the knobbed handle right against Chilton's ass. Hannibal's smile was now fully fleshed, with insidious corners perked, a rare breed of smirk indeed -- and Chilton was completely blind to it. With his cheek pressed to the floor, Chilton had no easy visual of his company, and the absence of that control prickled goosebumps along his arms and legs.

"I don't -- no, wait," his whisper tore from his throat, low and harsh. He curled his fingers into his palm, whimpering minor protests. "I didn't invite this particular game, Hannibal."

Another lie. 

Chilton screamed out as Hannibal thrust the knob of his cane into his body, the rounded globe parting his anal cavity with unrelenting force. There was no mercy indulged, no gentility expressed; there was only the hard, slick push of a fingerprint-laden bulge. The very handle that Chilton's fingers had caressed so frequently, that now tore deeply into him, pushing against his hot, secret flesh by centimeters. Hannibal kept a consistent pace, his force very nearly mechanical in its execution. 

" _God!_ " 

Chilton surged forward, moaning, his knees skidding along the hard wooden floor. The noises leaking from between his teeth were unrecognizable to him, with such smallness and vulnerability exposed in every errant syllable. He felt his abdomen tighten and shudder, felt the strain of pressure taunt those carefully readjusted organs down his torso. He feared immediately for his healthy and safety -- since Gideon's surgical foray, Chilton had not indulged in hazardous sexual activity. The cane shoving deeper into his ass caused a domino effect of anxiety and pleasurable anticipation, with sparks of burning white ecstasy, and that exhilarating swirl of natural-born cocktail chemicals flooded the saliva in his mouth. His frontal scar ached, which provoked another wave of fear along Chilton's brain. Impulsively, he bucked back, aiding Hannibal's angle with panicking compliance; his cane tip pressed against his prostate gland, and shockwaves of pleasure seized his spine. The bulbous brunt of his cane's handle forced deep, secret flesh to expand and contract along its whim, which was only a reaction to Hannibal's designs. As he squeezed shut his eyes and clenched his fists, Chilton's resolve for poise disintegrated. 

His freshly erected member ached. It had been too recently since his last release, but Hannibal commanded his body. 

"I should -- have _asked_ for your _permission_ ," choked out Chilton. He knew it was what the other man wanted to hear; Hannibal wanted a sacrifice, and all Chilton had was his dignity. 

"Go on," replied Hannibal, his grip undulating the cane in and out of Chilton, inspiring sharp whimpers with its reign. 

"It, nnnghh -- it was _rude_ of me, please -- please don't."

"Rude, yes. In both regards to your disobedience in this room and your denial of Will, my patient. Highly rude, Frederick." 

Another bump against his prostate gland, and Hannibal's hand moved to Chilton's left hip. He angled the other man upwards, gently, posing his posterior for a more poignant angle. The pushed of the cane now came down Chilton quietly, like an agonizing whisper slinking through his body -- or, at least, one particular cut of his body. For a brief second, Chilton pondered on the symbolic subtext; Hannibal's assault from behind, working through Chilton's own undignified hinds, with the very implement that enabled Chilton to hold up his legs and buttocks. It was like falling upon his own sword, brutally, sexually. Chilton, his thighs now flushed with blood, the flow yielding to his genitalia, tried desperately to crawl away. The movement manifested in small, pathetic jerks forward, and quiet knee scraps upon the floor; but those attempts were not so miniature as to have escaped Hannibal's perusal. The cannibal smiled softly, his throat humming a sound both silken and patronizing. He withdrew the length of the cane, which was multiple inches inwards, until the rounded handle puckered just _barely_ within Chilton's own body. 

"Please," Chilton groaned out, hoping repetition would inspire pity. A vain hope indeed. 

"Please, what? Specifics, Frederick." 

Weighing his options -- now that he secured the opportunity of Hannibal's attention, Chilton grasped how influential _performance_ would be, if he was to be heard -- the Chief of Staff considered his own reactions. Here he felt pinned, pressed against a willpower that was more godlike than not. He felt exposed and inelegant, a direct contrast to Hannibal's feathered ease and swanning movements, his versatile prowess. 

"Please let me release." 

The pressure was building between his legs again, and it terrified Chilton to indulge Hannibal's disappointment for a _third_ time this session -- a sequence of logic he would later sneer at, later regret and repress. But Hannibal Lecter, with his hands and mouth and force, persuaded Chilton to deeply value that chasm between approval and rejection. He submitted to that sinister, unspoken arrangement: he would beg for permission, he would avoid disdain. 

"I cannot say I am inclined," drawled Hannibal, his conversation as balanced as his pulse. He looked down at his prey nearly fondly, appreciating the pinkened glow of Chilton's cheeks and the smears of sweat glazed along his forehead. "After all, you have already expressed your pleasure once. What have I to gain?" 

Chilton whimpered. No answer came readily to him, so stifling was this heated thrall gripping his loins. 

"Don't you have -- similar needs? Your own release, after all this stimulation, don't you need that?" 

Chilton considered it savvy bargaining, given the circumstance. 

Hannibal didn't respond with words. His hand, the singular implement that had momentarily angled Chilton's hip, glided over the kneeling man's lips now. Chilton felt the warm, sticky mess that laced Hannibal's fingers before it fully registered _what_ that was. Chilton hadn't even noticed Hannibal's own orgasm, so wrapped was he in his particular plight -- a consequence highly intended by Hannibal himself. 

"I do not require your influence for that," said Hannibal. He poised his soaked, dripping fingers against Chilton's lips. "But you could still be of acute service." 

Chilton winced, breathing quickly; his pulse sizzled with a final wave of humiliation. Clean up a mess he himself hadn't inspired? Or, at least, not directly manipulated? It was somewhat excruciating to his ego. Nevertheless, if this was the final sacrifice, he could build a pyre to burn. 

Lips parting, he accepted Hannibal's semen-stained fingers. His tongue darted over the offering, pink cells lapping away pale fluids. While Chilton licked at those fingers, Hannibal's ulterior hand teased gently with the round handle of the cane still inserted. Chilton, torn by the onslaught of stimulation, quivered from his thighs. Another surge of pressure tormented his testicles, and he forced his mouth over all of Hannibal's fingers, unerring in his lingual dedication. His quick, sharp tongue maneuvered efficiently, tasting up every salty speck of Hannibal's secretive release. 

It was a milk-water tested, he thought, wryly. Here was what drove the difference between swans and cranes. Both were pale in presentation, but only one was the imposter. 

Chilton, having devoured all he could, craned his head around to catch sight of Hannibal's appraisal. 

"Acceptable," murmured Hannibal. He popped out the cane -- an action that caused Chilton to curl with echoing moans -- while his cleaned hand swooped to stroked Chilton's second erection. His thumb teased under Chilton's head, urging the softer skin to surrender. Hannibal wrapped his arms around the other doctor, entangling him, and Chilton could do little but accept the relief. He came, again, a second coming. 

Hannibal licked at Chilton's ear, teasing a smirk against his cheek. 

"We will continue this discussion, Frederick." He exhaled softly, before pulling back. The retreat in itself was almost a graceful flight. "I have not given up on Will Graham." 

"No, I imagine you have not," said Chilton, who remained curled on the floor, coiled in his own fabric and fluid. He looked up at Hannibal, watching the other man straighten his trousers, watching Hannibal stare back down. Another, careful breath exuded, and Chilton swallowed the last of Hannibal's residue.

"I imagine this is far from your final swansong." Chilton bared his teeth, creating a show of acknowledgment -- but not a smiling one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kind support! You're all very wonderful and encouraging, and I am keen to keep up the Hannibal fic.


End file.
